Cold Pasta
by Lavenderangel
Summary: His first real rescue, and he fails. Complete.


Title: Cold Pasta Author: Lala Rating: PG, for mentioning of death Pairing: Clark/Lois Summary: His first real rescue, and he fails. Complete.  
Spoilers: For the end scene of Lucy, LOL. Isn't related to the episode at all though.  
Author's notes: I have an obsession with making Clark cry, and I needed to make him cry in front of Lois. Plus, I had cold pasta for dinner, and I can't stop obsessing over it, LOL.

Major thanks go out to Cait, who read this whole thing through even before I did. Someone give the girl an award, she's beta reader extraordinaire, even when she doesn't have to be. Worships Cait  
Disclaimer: Don't I wish the Clois were mine. Yes, I do…

He hadn't meant to do it. He'd been going home and it was late and he'd seen the flames suddenly, as though they'd leaped out of nowhere. They were just there, huge and threatening and spellbinding.

He'd rushed at them before he knew what he was doing. From very far away it seemed, he remembered barely hearing sirens. There wasn't time; it might be too late as it was.

Firefighters were suddenly there, and he zipped directly into the flames. It was one of the smaller homes, set far back from town. He was surprised and relieved the fire department had been alerted so quickly.

But not quickly enough. There were four people inside, as far as he knew. A mother, a boy around nine, and his two younger sisters.

The boy was the only one who lived.

He'd found the mother first. Curled protectively around what he later realized was her daughter, her face scarred by burns she'd never feel.

He'd had to look away. He'd seen the girl then, the one the mother had been trying desperately to shield. She hadn't succeeded.

Although the girl hadn't appeared to be severely burned, she had been unresponsive as Clark called to her, his own voice small and cracking.

And when he'd picked her up… she was supposed to be warm. It was hot in there, even for him. But she was so cold. Cold and empty and he'd nearly dropped her in his anxiousness to get her away from him.

He'd screamed then, desperately. "Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Please, someone answer!"

And then he heard it, barely audible over the roaring flames and his racing heart. A cough.

He knew it was probably meant to be a word and he ran frantically in the direction he hoped it was coming from.

He found him crouching in a corner. The flames were just behind Clark, and he sprinted to the figure.

"We've got to get you out of here," he had gasped.

"Nikki…" the boy managed a word then, small and choked. "Nikki, come on. Idiot, come on! We're safe now! Niks, you stupid freak, come on! Wake up!"

He saw the second girl then, her hair fanning out as she lay sprawled on the tile floor of the bathroom. They were near a window which some part of him, the small part that wasn't fixated on the lifeless form before him, guessed they'd tried to escape out of it. But it was small and old and they hadn't been able to open it. But none of that was important now; he had to get this kind out of here.

He had to be able to save someone. He had to.

"C-come on." He scooped the boy up and punched at the glass of the window, desperate to get him away from the flames; away from the death. The boy was too distraught to notice anything.

"Nikki, Nikki!" he screamed at his sister. Clark didn't need confirming to know she was dead.

Somehow, he got him outside. His jacket was on fire but he barely noticed. The fire fighters stared at him in shock, but then they found the other occupants of the house.

He left the boy with the EMT's, as he struggled to remember his father's cell phone number. "Nikki was in charge of knowing daddy's. I knew mommy's and she knew his and she always teases me when I forget mommy's. She knows hers, too, even though she doesn't havta."

His voice was small but calm, and Clark knew he must be in denial. Either that, or numb. Maybe both. Clark was, too. Numb.

He gets home late. His parents are in bed; they'd been at the farmers market all day and his father had been virtually asleep on the couch when Clark had left to go to the library to finish a history project.

It was ruined now, he realized suddenly. The disk had been in his jacket pocket and the selfish part of him thanked the fact that he'd been working with Chloe and she had her own copy saved. His history grade wouldn't die.

Not like those little girls had.

"Hey, Smallville." Lois is sitting on the couch, watching the news. She might say more, he doesn't know.

Food. He needs to eat. He needs normality.

His mother had made pasta for dinner; he found a bowl covered in saranwrap in the fridge.

He heads for the microwave but that reminded him of the fire. Heat of any kind was out of the question.

He sinks down at the table and makes himself start eating. He needs a distraction; something to get their faces out of his mind. The pasta doesn't help.

It's cool and wet against his lips; his tongue.

Just like that little girl's skin.

His fork falls to the floor with a clatter and Lois says something again. He scrambles to retrieve it, anything to keep himself busy.

"…what's with you?" She's close now, holding out a clean fork.

He can't speak.

"Are you sick or something?" She presses an awkward hand to his forehead, leaning down and studying him. "You look a bit pale…"

Her hand was soft on his skin. Warm, but not like the fire. Warm like alive. Like safe.

"Lois…" His voice sounds strange to them both.

"Yeah?" She takes her hand away, but keeps looking at him. Her hair brushes against his shoulder as she slowly stands back up when he doesn't respond.

It's soft and dark and warm.

That little girl's hair had been dark, too. But he doubted it was warm; none of her was warm. She'd never be warm again.

Clark wonders if he will ever be, too.

"Clark?" The word sounds strange on her lips; but not in a bad way. He usually calls him Smallville or Farmboy and most recently, Lunkhead, for reasons unknown. She only uses Clark when she wants something.

Or when she's concerned.

She wasn't usually concerned; but she is now, he guesses. She's grabbing his arm, fingers soft but firm.

"C'mere." What does she want? Where are they going? She leads him up the stairs, leaving the pasta barely touched on the table. It doesn't matter; it can't get any colder.

She leads him into his bedroom and pushes him gently on the bed.

"You smell like smoke," she says. "Lie down."

"What – "

"Lie down." She pushes at his shoulders and caught off guard, he falls, sprawling on his back.

Like that little girl – Nikki – had been.

He's shaking then, and Lois is saying something and he hears her getting up. Feels her let go of his shoulder she'd kept holding on to, for some reason.

"No," he gasps. "Please no. Please don't go."

"Clark – "

"Please…"

"Okay." She's on the bed then, perching on the edge. There, but not close.

He needs her to be.

He reaches for her, needing something to cling onto. He looks at her, trying to convey something with his eyes. Exactly what, he doesn't know but he hopes she will.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Her voice is gentle, a tone he seldom hears from Lois Lane. She takes his hand, moving more fully on the bed. Her fingers are a soothing presence against his, warm and living and liberating. Because with her here, he's able to breathe again, just a little bit.

"Uh huh. S-something d-did happen."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I c-can't. I'm s-sorry…"

"No, no. It's okay, I'm used to your elusiveness." She tries to make him smile and he wants to but can't.

"Can, can you just…" again, he doesn't know what he's trying to ask. "I'm sorry, I, I, I…"

She doesn't say anything but suddenly her hand's not the only thing touching him. Her arms are sliding around him, making her lean awkwardly over him. She remains sitting, crouched over him, holding him loosely. Slowly it tightens though as he sits up and clutches her hard.

And all the awkwardness seems to leave her, at the same time his tears do. Her arms squeeze harder, and he's sorry he's making her smell like smoke and taking away the soft, Loisish sent that's currently encompassing him away.

But he's not making Lois go away. She's here, soft and strong and not saying a word.

Later, just how much he doesn't know, once the tears have slowed and he's realizing just how comforting her hair is as it cushions his face; he speaks in a rabid whimper.

"Thank you," he manages. "I'm sorry for that – for this, I just I'm…"

She waves his apologies away with the hand that had somehow been resting on his cheek. "It's what friend's do, right?"

Friends. It feels good to hear her say that. "Y-yeah. But you don't… and I didn't…"

"It doesn't matter, Smallville." He wants to know what matters, if he can still matter even though those people are dead.

"But…"

She shakes her head and slips off the bed. "I'm going downstairs before that pasta grows legs and starts exploring. Knowing this town, that might actually happen."

That makes him smile, which makes her, too. And she's gone before he can say thank you. But somehow, he knows that doesn't matter to her. He thinks the smile was enough, for both of them. 


End file.
